Boot Fence
by Zo One
Summary: Giving up my boots is like you giving up your dreams. AU; fluff;


**Boot Fence**

There wasn't much to be said for living on the homestead. Routine carved out your life, tradition and religion ruled over the household. It was something that many young men and women found themselves escaping from at the ripe age of eighteen, it was also something that many humbly accepted, tipping their hats against the sun as they rode into the pastures.

It was a role that Alfred F. Jones careened himself into, chasing the ranch's colts and fillies into the next grazing pasture. It was a decent living in the Black Hills, away from the tourism and noise, but when the day's work was out, he always found himself wandering down to the city, intent on losing himself in the traffic and people. But usually he went to the tourist traps to pay a visit to someone in particular.

His name was Arthur Kirkland, a once-upon-a-time foreigner who had been charmed by the idea of carving profiles into the faces of mountains, the passion of sculpting, and his curiosity of caves. Alfred, as a nearby resident, of course knew what basic education in the area told him, but he liked to stop by the Borglum museum once and awhile to listen to Arthur talk about the statues and the process of the creating molds and casts of Abraham Lincoln.

Not once did Alfred find it boring, following Arthur all about the small display rooms and the gift shop where, strangely, the blond Englishman worked. He wasn't a tour guide, but Alfred thought he should be. The man was far more knowledgeable than the others that actually ran the tour, but Alfred never pointed the fact out – he didn't want to sound rude.

Today Arthur smiled at him serenely from behind the gift shop counter, waiting to see if there would be a small trickle of guests before the afternoon was out. It was becoming late fall, and the number of tourists since August had declined sharply, something that Alfred was both grateful and worried about. "And how are you this fine evening, Alfred?" Arthur asked him as he began to inspect some new key chains that he hadn't seen the last time he had visited.

"Good, good. We're still prepping for winter – they say it's gunna be a snowy one this year." Arthur nodded and glanced at the door, watching as a couple passed by but didn't enter. The Englishman sighed in relief. "Hey, how come you guys ever get anything with names on them you never have Alfred, or even Al?"

Arthur chuckled. "Yes, yes, you'd be surprised how many times a day I hear that complaint. Hardly ever do I see Arthur, and I cannot think of a more commonplace name than that."

"Emily."

"Pardon?"

"Emily is always on these things." Alfred smiled and meandered up to the counter. "So how's everything been for you? Has it been slow? Are you staying for the winter?"

The Englishman folded his hands over the glass counter, staring off to the side. "I… don't know. It's been four years and… well… I'm unsure. I love it here, I truly do, but things aren't… No business here takes me seriously as an artist and a historian. I'm rather… put out, I suppose."

Alfred leaned onto the counter near Arthur folded hands, pretending to look at the semi-precious jewelry inside the case. Arthur was someone he had enjoyed being around, and one of his few friends that lived outside of the Rapid City and was interesting and had these _dreams_. Alfred was envious at times, of Arthur's will and dedication to the things he loved, but sometimes he entertained the idea that, if Arthur realized his dream, then somehow, but by tangent, Alfred would be able to bask in the joy and glory of seeing Arthur happy with his life, just as Alfred was with his own.

"Well… where do you want to go? If not here? I mean… I'm sure it's none of my business…"

Arthur gave a disbelieving laugh. "None of your business? You've been my closest friend for years, my mate, if you will. You're the only one who listens to what I have to say, who thinks I'm even remotely interesting, believes I can do anything out here; who believes in me. So yes, of course it's your business." He sighed, long and hard. "And I would tell you, but… I simply do not know."

They were both silent for a long moment, watching the antique clock towards the back of the store strike seven. Arthur sighed again, but this time he simply pointed at Alfred's boots, a pair that had been worn out beyond repair over the years. "Your boots are falling apart at the seams," the Englishman said, his tone morose. "Isn't it about time you bought a new pair?"

"My boots…?" Alfred glanced down at his boots, wiggling his toes a bit and grimacing as the soles flapped slightly. "But… I've had these boots since… well since before I met you even! I mean, I know they're bad, but givin' up these boots would be like you givin' up your dreams!"

Apparently that had been the wrong thing to say as Arthur picked up his jacket from the corner. "Well, obviously my dreams can be given up just as easily as your boots!" Arthur shrugged on his jacket and with a glare he stomped out of the shop after shouting to the owners that he was leaving. Alfred followed after, but with nothing positive or reinforcing to say, he let Arthur flee to his car and drive away.

"Well shit."

* * *

The next evening, after the chores had been completed, Alfred made his way back to the small museum. He held an elongated shoebox under his arm and double checked the clock in the back of the gift shop before approaching the counter. "Arthur," he said, straightening his shoulders, "You should come with me to the ranch when your shift is over. I have to show you something."

Arthur glanced up from his book, his green eyes were confused and shocked. "I… wha-what for?"

"I have to show you something." He frowned. "And I want to apologize for sounding like a dick yesterday. I didn't mean to, you know."

The Englishman glanced at the clock, three minutes until seven, and he relented. "I… well, alright I don't see the harm. Would you mind driving? I don't like taking those turns in my car."

"Sure thing! And I'll have you back here by nine! I promise."

* * *

The hills to Alfred's home and place of work were long, twisted, and had the occasional sheep crossing. Arthur had had an experience when first driving the hills of South Dakota, and ever since he had found ways around taking the steepest of them. "It's about being the car," Arthur had told him a year or so back, "I can stand on a ledge and look down just fine, but it's when you're in the car, looking out your window down a rocky slope at forty something miles an hour it just…" Alfred never brought up the subject again.

The Jones ranch consisted of rolling, rocky hills, small groups of horses roamed the open grasslands, and old wooden fences with barbed wire lined the nearby roads and sectioned the grazing pastures. But Alfred didn't take the usual turn into the driveway, instead following a long turn towards the edge of the brown grasslands. He pulled over on the side of the road, his truck slanted as two wheels settled on the gravelly hill. "This is our stop," he said, putting his truck in park and pulling up the emergency brake.

Arthur followed Alfred outside and down the short hill to the barbed wire fence, stuffing his hands into his jacket nervously as an autumn wind nipped at his nose. "Alfred what in blazes are we doing?"

"I wanted to make up for yesterday," Alfred answered casually. He walked up to a fence post, where there was a single boot, the leather worn, old, and weathered. It was fitted onto the pole so the sole was facing upwards, and on the next pole was its mate. Arthur frowned in confusion. "When I said givin' up my boots would be like givin' up your dreams," Alfred sighed, "I just meant… It's real hard for a rancher or a cowboy or whatever you wanna call us, it's hard for us to give up our boots – they're like… a part of us. I wear these suckers every day. I break in good horses in these boots. They've carried me for miles and miles, so… it's hard. It's sentimental and hard."

With a determined face Alfred peeled off each of his boots, moving to the nearest empty pole by hopping from rock to rock in his socks, the elongated box clutched carefully under his arm. "Alfred what are you on about?"

Alfred smiled before taking a deep breath and placing is boot over the top of the wooden fence post. "Instead of givin' up our boots, we put 'em here. This is the boot fence, where all our retired boots go. So we remember all the miles, the work, and the horses that those boots carried, trekked through, and broke into. So like your dreams, we honor them and we remember, and we move on." He grinned at Arthur before hopping to the next post to place his second boot. "But unlike your dreams, we can't pick 'em back up and wear 'em like new. You can, though. Dreams aren't made of leather, they're made of… dream stuff… and well – I don't know. I didn't think I'd get this far, honestly."

Arthur barked out a laugh, catching up to Alfred with a few easy steps. "You're one of kind, you know that, Alfred?" Alfred could only send him a hopeful grin. "I'm…" he paused, letting his eyes slowly take in the long line of boots along the fence posts, there had to be at least twelve or more pairs of boots that he could see easily. It was a testament to time, a monument in its own right. It was heartwarming once you understood why. "I'm utterly chuffed," he said at last. "And I do believe I'll stay here for a bit longer. Perhaps my dreams haven't been realized quite yet, but I'm sure it'll happen someday."

"They will! And I'll be there to help you out the whole way! Just promise me, when you're a rich and famous historian and sculptor, that you'll remember me."

"Not a problem," Arthur said easily. "You're absolutely unforgettable." He tapped the box beneath Alfred's arms. "Now, are you going to put on your new shoes? Or are you going to stand about like a lemon all evening?"

They laughed together as Alfred clumsily put on his new boots, the smell of leather and polish strong on them. Arthur watched the young American bend the toes experimentally, his face scrunched in discomfort as he did so. He supposed he could stick around this place for his dreams – and maybe for someone else as well.

* * *

A/N: Just a quick somethin' somethin' I wrote while vacationing in South Dakota. :o


End file.
